CALL ME NUWANDA
by navycorpsman
Summary: Charlie Dalton is now at a new private school. Dare he start a new chapter in the DEAD POETS SOCIETY or does he close that book?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. Otherwise, I'd have Charlie all to myself! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Rating: FRT

Spoilers: None that I know of...

Content Warning: Possible Strong Language

Summary: Charlie Dalton is now at a new private school. Dare he start a new chapter in the DEAD POETS SOCIETY or does he close that book?

* * *

**I celebrate myself, and sing myself…And what I assume you shall assume,**

**For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you…I loafe and invite my soul,**

**I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass**

**I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable…I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.**

Charlie Dalton leaned back in his desk, reading those words over and over. He hadn't regretted hitting Cameron. After all, the boot-licker deserved it. He didn't regret being expelled from Hell-ton. He was trying to think of what it was that he regretted. He looked out the window and saw the snow starting to softly fall.

Charlie took out an old book and quietly read Herrick's poem to himself. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying" He smiled as he remembered Mr. Keating's words. "Carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary."

"Mr. Dalton Care to share your poetry?" Mr. Evans, the English teacher at his new school asked.

Charlie sat up. "No, not really sir."

"Then why did you read it out loud?" Mr. Evans stood by Charlie's desk.

"Because it's a beautiful poem." Charlie snuffed.

"Yes, but let's look at the poem on the Pritchard Scale, shall we?" Mr. Evans took the book to the front and started to explain how it fit on the Pritchard Scale. "Mr. Dalton, what do you think of your poem?"

"Sir?" Charlie shot back to reality.

"It's not up to par on the Pritchard Scale, now is it?"

"It's not pipe, Mr. Evans. It's poetry. J. Evans Pritchard is a lonely old prat who writes excrement, so he has to come up with some sort of scale to bring the best of the best poetry down. It's not Bandstand, sir."

"Pritchard's Scale is a tried and true method for analyzing poetry, Mr. Dalton."

"Why analyze something that speaks to people? Does everything in life need to be analyzed?" Charlie felt he was stepping out of himself. He learned how to suck the marrow of life without choking on the bone, and he was going to suck the marrow, even if he started to choke.

Mr. Evans looked at his brash new young student. "We are studying the Pritchard Scale here, Mr. Dalton…"

"Poetry isn't Bandstand and it shouldn't be treated as such."

"You don't interrupt a teacher, Mr. Dalton. I don't know who told you that the Pritchard Scale is an inaccurate method for analyzing poetry, but let me assure they were wrong. Without the Pritchard Scale, we wouldn't know what poems were well written."

"What of Shakespeare?" Charlie challenged.

"You are out of line, Mr. Dalton." Mr. Evans was half relieved when the bell rang, ending the school day. "Don't forget your assignments and, Mr. Dalton, I need you to stay behind."

Charlie sighed. "Yes, Mr. Evans?"

"You are to never challenge me again in class. I don't know what you were taught at Welton, but your attitude will not fly here. I suggest that you do a real check on yourself and adjust that poor attitude of yours. Dismissed."

Charlie stood up, resisting the urge to say anything. He made his way to his new room and was dismayed to see his roommate there already studying. "Peters." Charlie tossed his books on his bed and stared out the window.

"Dalton." David Peters tried to focus on his studies, but he was intrigued by the new guy. "Dalton?"

"Yeah?" Charlie never turned around.

"What were you taught at Welton?" Peters twisted in his chair to look at his roommate.

"We were taught 'Carpe Diem' and to learn how to speak for ourselves, even when no one will listen."

"The school taught you that?"

"Nope. Mr. Keating." Charlie looked at his roommate. There was something about Peters that reminded him of Todd. Peters wasn't a popular kid due to extreme shyness and in the couple weeks he'd been there, Charlie had grown to be considered the most popular one on campus. "Hey, there's something I have to do real quick. We can study our assignment when I get back, okay?"

Peters only nodded. "Sure." He turned back to his assignment and sighed. He was the only one that Charlie Dalton wouldn't speak to for more than one second.

Charlie made his way down to the phone area. He dialed a familiar number and was happy to hear a familiar voice on the other end. "John Keating speaking."

"Mr. Keating, it's Charlie Dalton." Charlie hoped Mr. Keating would remember him.

"Ah, yes. Still choking on the marrow of life?"

"No. I just really needed a friendly voice."

"Come now, Mr. Dalton, you have to have friends there."

Silence. "Mr. Keating, did I eve…"

"Speak, Mr. Dalton." Mr. Keating had given his beloved students a place to reach him should they ever need him. Until Charlie's call tonight, he had only heard from Todd Anderson, the mouse of the group.

"I want to thank you for giving us the opportunity to actually learn. I never got to say that."

"Mr. Dalton, you're amazing."

"What?"

"You call me to thank me for something I already knew." Charlie could picture Mr. Keating on the other end smiling. "The way you stood up for me. Oh, yes. Todd told me the full story." Mr. Keating knew that Charlie would ask. "The way you felt that you could stand up and walk how you wanted, speak how you wanted, and, most importantly, Mr. Dalton, how you have changed into a man, despite the circumstances surrounding you. I have heard the stories."

"How?"

"Mr. Crocelli."

"Our Latin teacher?" Charlie was dumbfounded.

"Yes. Good friend of mine. Went to Hell-ton with him. He was a member of the Dead Poets Society with me. He speaks very highly of you, Mr. Dalton."

"Mr. Keating?" Charlie hesitated.

"Yes, Mr. Dalton?"

"Could you call me Nuwanda?" Charlie grinned.

Mr. Keating laughed on the other end. "I must go now, _Nuwanda_." He spoke with a sense of humor. "Don't forget to call again to keep me posted."

"Thanks, Mr. Keating."

"Nuwanda?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Ask Mr. Crocelli for the package I sent your way."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n."

With renewed confidence and energy, Charlie made his way back to his room. ""Alright, Peters, where were we?"

Peters looked up at Charlie, surprised his roommate, who never studied with him, was now going to. "Uh, I was actually…"

"Never mind. What's the assignment?" Charlie sat down hard at his desk. He wasn't sure where the urge to be a better student was coming from, but he was going to continue keeping his grades at the A level they always had been at.

Peters flipped through his book. "We're to write a poem, using the Pritchard Scale as our guide." He didn't see it, but Peters knew Charlie rolled his eyes and he turned around and looked at his roommate. "Mr. Evans is a teacher and he knows this stuff and…"

"Alright! Relax!" Charlie sighed as he began to work on his assignment.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. Otherwise, I'd have Charlie all to myself! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

* * *

"Mr. Dalton?" Mr. Crocelli's voice made Charlie jump out of his seat.

"Yes, Mr. Crocelli?"

The elder gentleman smiled as he handed Charlie a small brown package. "Mr. Keating asked me to give this to you."

Charlie looked up at Mr. Crocelli. "Thank you, sir. He told me to be expecting this." Charlie couldn't help but smile. He carefully tore open the paper and stared hard at the book in his hands. _Five Centuries of Verse._ "Mr. Crocelli, did you know?"

Mr. Crocelli laughed. "I must admit I did. He said to tell you that it is to be used for good and not for evil, _Nuwanda_." The teacher laughed.

Charlie opened the book and read the words on the first page. In Mr. Keating's distinct writing was Henry David Thoreau's words.

_I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived._

_H.D. Thoreau (1817 – 1862)_

Charlie couldn't help but be excited. He tried not to run to English Class. He sat behind David Peters. "Psst. Peters." He whispered.

Peters looked behind him. "What, Dalton?"

"We gotta talk, man." Charlie's face lit up.

Peters had never really talked to his well-admired roommate and was intrigued by whatever it was that not only made Charlie smile, but also made him want to talk. "About?"

"Later." Charlie looked to the door and stood as Mr. Evans entered the class.

Mr. Evans sat his books on the desk. "I trust each of you did your assignment." He looked at the back. "Mr. Dalton, I assume you will read yours first."

Charlie sighed. Teachers hadn't picked him on this bad since freshman year. He stood at the front of the room and read his poem.

_We were given an assignment_

_To write a poem according to Pritchard_

_This was a stupid assignment_

_That bored me and I found hard._

_How do you treat poetry_

_As though it were some sort of pipe?_

_Isn't poetry perfect as it is_

_A glimpse into someone's mind?_

_This poem, I promise_

_Will score negative on Pritchard's Scale_

_And I know Mr. Evans will frown_

_And I will this assignment surely fail._

Mr. Evans sighed. "Mr. Dalton, you will stay after class today and write a new poem. Understood?"

Charlie took his seat. "Yes, Sir."

* * *

Peters looked up as Charlie entered the room. "Everything okay?"

Charlie smiled broadly. "Yeah. Hey, listen. I've got something that might be of some interest to you." He knelt beside Peters.

"What?" Peters was now intrigued. Charlie Dalton was not only talking to him, but also claimed to have an item of interest to him. Charlie held up the book and Peters hesitantly took it, examining it. "Jesus, Dalton. Where'd you get this?"

"Doesn't matter." Charlie took the book back and hopped on his bed. "But here's what does. Dead Poets."

Peters shook his head. "Dead Poets?"

Charlie jumped up and down on his bed, trying to figure out if he should start a new Dead Poets Society and if so, who would he trust enough? "Yeah. The poetry of the dead poets."

"I don't get it."

Charlie jumped off the bed, landing close to Peters. "Women swoon." He smiled in memory of Knox. _Why do they swoon? Tell me why they swoon._

Peters looked at Charlie, wondering what was so funny. "Why would I want women to swoon, Dalton? I have too much school…"

"Read the words in the front of the book, Peters." Charlie stood up, wondering why he was even bothering. As Peters took the book, Charlie quoted the words. "…_when I came to die, discover that I had not lived._" He looked at Peters. "Come on. Suck the marrow of life. Carpe Diem! Make your life extraordinary!"

"How?" Peters sighed. "No one likes me much and you know better than anyone that I'm not exactly a public speaker."

"Neither was Todd." Charlie lay back on his bed. "But don't you see that's the beauty of this all." He suddenly shot up and knelt next to Peters, his hand on Peters' shoulder, and whispered. "In the Dead Poets Society, we were all equals. Except that boot licker Richard Cameron, but that's beside the point. Peters, isn't there anyone you want to swoon over you?"

Peters looked at Dalton and smiled. "There is this one person." Peters sighed.

"Tell me about her." Charlie pushed.

"So full of life and energy. Almost like nothing in life can bring her spirit down." He smiled as he looked back at his book and then suddenly frowned, lowering his voice. "The sad thing is that she wouldn't ever look my way."

"Why not?"

"Not her type." He looked at Dalton. _You like women and I find that I really like you and not just as a friend._ "She likes guys like you, Dalton." Peters watched Charlie as he paced the floor. _There's something about you, Charlie Dalton, that makes me want to kiss you. I don't know what it is._ "You say something?"

"Yeah. Let's do it."

Peters choked. "Uh, yeah sure." He was hoping Charlie Dalton was not a mind reader.

"Yeah. I'll find a few more guys that we can trust."

"What will they say?"

Charlie shrugged. "Not sure, but if they like the poetry of the dead poets and want women to swoon, they'll be in!" He laughed as he raced out the hall.

Peters now understood what Charlie was talking about. He turned back to his writing. With Charlie gone, Peters could now pull out his private journal and write in it. He paused a moment before writing.

_Charlie Dalton is an addiction. We have so few of those in life and I find mine in my very room. I can't stop thinking about him and his vibrance for life and, as he stated, sucking the marrow out of life. I am unsure of what happened at Welton, but I know that it was not an easy leave for him, and yet, as he talks, walks, writes…lives…you begin to wonder about the power of living life. I know that the papers talked about the young man from Welton that killed himself and it was shortly after that, that Charlie Dalton came to Albany. He was, admittedly, a little withdrawn, but as we divulged more into poetry in English class, Charlie Dalton began to come alive and I loved to watch as his eyes sparkling and to hear his voice nearly sing as he recited some works._

_Now, he talks of dead poets, handing me a book of Five Centuries of Verse, Henry David Thoreau's words written in the front cover**: I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, with when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.**_

_ Is that what Charlie Dalton is doing? Living so that when he comes to die, he finds that he lived?_

_So what am I doing? Am I not living? Was the tragedy at Welton designed in such a way that I would get Charlie Dalton as a roommate, teaching me about life? So I could learn how to live? Until I know how everyone will respond to the fact that I am attracted to men, especially Charlie Dalton, I fear I will never live._

_He lives by the phrase 'Carpe Diem', which literally means 'Seize the day'. He has it written in all notebooks and books of his. He even has it scribbled on a sheet of paper that hangs near his bed. And there's another poem. One by a John Keating. He's a poet I've never heard of, but I will write the poem in here because it is lovely and I do enjoy it and when Charlie leaves me, it will be a reminder of him and I shall smile each time I read these words:_

'_**Only in their dreams are men truly free**_

_**T'was always thus and always thus will be.**_

_**J. Keating.'**_

_Isn't that lovely? But, I hear Charlie's lovely voice coming down the hall and I must put this away before my secret is revealed._

Peters managed to get the journal safely in his desk before Charlie pounced in. He looked at Peters with a smile. "It's on." Charlie lay back on his bed. "The Dead Poets live again."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. Otherwise, I'd have Charlie all to myself! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

* * *

Charlie sat in the cave, looking around. The faces were different, yet so familiar. Peters had the same look of scared daring that Todd had. Haldon Brooks reminded Charlie so much of Knox Overstreet that he sometimes slipped and called him 'Knoxious'. Dean Singleton, right down to the red hair buzz cut, reminded Charlie so much of Cameron that it took all he had to not hit him. Jeffery White and Stephen Davies were Pitts and Meeks doppelgangers, Charlie was sure of it.

But, Neal Henry was the one that looked the most similar to one of the previous DPS members. From the way his dark hair fell in his face, to the high cheekbones and dark eyes that danced and shone, as though they were looking for trouble with every glance, and even his willingness to suck the marrow out of life and to live the motto 'Carpe Diem!', Neal Henry was Neil Perry reincarnated, and Charlie often felt like crying every time he saw him.

Charlie still had a doubt of asking them to join the Dead Poets Society. He hadn't known them as long as he knew Neil Perry and Knox Overstreet and even Richard Cameron and Gerard Pitts and Stephen Meeks. He knew the sort of trouble that would be had if he started a new chapter of the Dead Poets Society, but the allure of trouble was what Charlie loved so much.

"Ahem." Charlie coughed and the guys looked at him. Charlie couldn't help but stare at Singleton, trying to keep in mind he wasn't Cameron. "I think that before we start this, I should read the words that have started every Dead Poets Society meeting since their inception." He opened the book and read aloud. "_I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." _He couldn't help but smile in memory of Neil reading those words and Knox whistling in revelation of the depth of the words.

Neal Henry looked up at Charlie. "Thoreau could be deep." He lit a cigarette. "So, what's this Dead Poets Society about anyhow?"

Charlie, not missing a beat, pulled out a piece of paper. "It is simple, gentlemen. We share poetry and smoke and…"

"Sounds like sissy shit to me." Singleton sneered.

"Women swoon, Singleton." Peters spoke up.

"And what would a fuckin' sissy boy like you care about women swooning?" Singleton's sneer never left.

Brooks spoke up. "Listen, Singleton, if you don't want to…"

"Never said I didn't want to. Just sounds like a bunch of fags reading poetry. That's all."

Charlie looked at Singleton. "Why do we need language?" He remembered Mr. Keating's class.

To Charlie's surprise, Singleton echoed Neil Perry's exact words. "To communicate."

"No! To woo women!" Charlie imitated Mr. Keating. "What do women love? Poetry. How do we woo women? Read and write poetry."

Neal Henry smiled a smile Charlie found very similar to Neil Perry's. "Okay then. We woo women with our words." He quickly winked at Charlie. "For we all love women here, right?"

Peters shifted uncomfortably as he looked at Neal. "Yeah, I guess so."

"All except sissy boy." Singleton sneered again.

"Leave him be." Davies chimed. "He's shy. And you'd have to pay a woman to swoon over you, Singleton."

Charlie glanced at Neal, who was hiding a laugh. Neal shrugged and Charlie let a laugh go without hesitation. "Alright, gentlemen, I call to order the third chapter of the Dead Poets Society." He looked around. "Any brave souls?" He looked around. "No one?"

"I've got something." Neal unfolded a sheet of paper. "I originally wrote this for class and stuffed it in my coat, hoping to forget it, but alas, here it is." He looked at Charlie. "This was from an assignment before you came. We had to describe in detail our biggest fear." He 'ahemed' before starting. "_My Biggest Fear by Neal Henry_" A few laughs escaped. "My biggest fear would be to wake up one morning and find Dean Singleton in the same room as me." He looked around. "The end."

"That's not funny, Neal." Dean protested amidst the laughs of the others.

"Oh, come on, Dean. Don't you have a sense of humor?" Charlie was struck by how much Neal Henry's voice even sounded like Neil Perry's. "Just relax. It's all in fun." Neal looked at Charlie. "You're the one who started this. Do you have anything to share?"

Charlie looked at the paper he still held in his hand. "_When the darkness comes and no light you will find; When fear and frustration and anger cloud the recesses of your mind; When you stand at the window, thoughts straying elsewhere; When you hold the gun, praying, just before you pull the trigger; Just before the shot echoes in the empty halls; Just before your body takes its final curtain call; Know that there are those who call you friend; Think of these things before you call it to an end._" He wiped a stray tear.

Silence filled the cave. Peters looked at Charlie, fighting the urge to pull him close and comfort him. _My poor Charlie. So filled with pain and I am useless to stop it. I am useless to do anything about it._

It was a few moments before anyone dared to speak. Jeffery White softly spoke up. "Does it have to be our own or can we recite the works of Tennyson and Wilde and the others?"

"We can make up our own rules." Charlie regained his composure. "Let it drip from your lips like honey. The more we learn, the more we read and write, the more women will swoon and the sooner we can discover our own voices." Charlie leaned back, lit a cigarette and surveyed the other boys with a grin, while they were still trying to figure the cocky Charles Rutherford Dalton out.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. Otherwise, I'd have Charlie all to myself! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

* * *

"Mr. Dalton!" Mr. Crocelli's voice echoed loudly in the class.

Charlie popped his eyes open. "Sorry, sir."

"Study hard last night?" Mr. Crocelli lightly asked.

"Yes, Sir." Charlie rolled his head.

"Good. I shall then expect you to pass." The bell rang. "Don't forget your assignment and Mr. Dalton, please stay behind a moment."

Charlie sighed. Every teacher was, in his opinion, out to get him. "Sir?"

Mr. Crocelli sat in the desk in front of Charlie. "I recognize that tired look, Mr. Dalton. Don't think I don't. I don't have to tell you of the consequences should this administration find out. You already know. But, Mr. Dalton, I beseech you to be careful and wise in this endeavor. I know what bonds can be formed in the Society and which ones will test your very core. If this is important to you, Mr. Dalton, I encourage you to use it as a time of bonding, not just wooing women."

"Mr. Crocelli?"

"Yes, Mr. Dalton?"

"We know what brought our chapter down. What broke yours?"

Mr. Crocelli smiled. "You'll be late to English and Mr. Evans will be none too happy if you are. Just be careful, Mr. Dalton. But, I am here for the Society, for once a member, always a member." He winked at Charlie.

* * *

_"Boys, you must strive to find your own voice. Because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said, 'Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.' Don't be resigned to that. Break out! Now we all have a great need for acceptance, but you must trust that your beliefs are unique, your own, even though others may think them odd or unpopular, even though the herd may go, 'That's baaaaad.' Robert Frost said, 'Two roads diverged in the wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.'"_

Charlie stared out the window as he recalled Mr. Keating's words as he taught them the value of being your own person. _Everyone in the class was walking in the circle, in every silly imaginable way, but Charlie. He leaned up against a column. "Will you be joining us today, Mr. Dalton?"_

"_I'm exercising the right not to walk." Was Charlie's simple response, thus proving what Mr. Keating was teaching._ Charlie missed Mr. Keating's teaching. Mr. Evans had the ability to teach, but he made it a chore, where as Mr. Keating made it fun and Charlie never realised he was learning until now and as Mr. Evans continued to teach, Charlie swore he heard Mr. Keating in the hall. He snapped his head to the door and remembered Mr. Keating's words to them. The words that Nuwanda felt changed his life.

"_Huddle up!"_ He had to repeat it a second time before the boys huddled around. While most of what Mr. Keating talked about was now forgotten in Charlie's memory, he heard distinctly the words of Mr. Keating talking, as though he knew their thoughts. _"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, 'O me! O life!...of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless...of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?' Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"_ Charlie felt Mr. Keating was speaking right to him. _My verse, Captain, is to be my own person._ Charlie thought as the bell rang. _To make my voice heard. To take the road less traveled by_.

Peters snapped his fingers in front of Charlie. "We're dismissed, Dalton."

"Oh. Thanks, Peters. We on for study tonight?" Charlie stood and gathered his things. As he walked out of the door, he stepped in to the path of a teacher. "Sorry, Sir."

"Just like you, Mr. Dalton, to not watch what you're doing and I am no sir. I am your Captain, remember?"

Charlie snapped his head up. "Mr. Keating!"

"Mr. Dalton." The teacher smiled at his former student. "I suppose you're wondering why I am here."

"Yes, Captain."

"I am here to interview for a job." Mr. Keating's eyes twinkled.

"Would Hell-ton give you a recommendation?"

"No." Mr. Keating laughed. "I'm here to meet with Mr. Crocelli, your Latin teacher, who assures me you are in no sort of trouble." He winked.

"No, Captain. No trouble at all." Charlie smiled.

Neal Henry came up behind Charlie, causing Mr. Keating to take a step back. Neal pretended not to notice and stuck his hand out. "Neal Henry. Charlie's friend. You must be the world famous Mr. Keating he's spoken so much of."

Mr. Keating shook Neal's hand. "Yes. Sorry about a moment ago. I just…I've seen you before. I know it."

Neal smiled. "Charlie's always talking about you. Says that you taught him how to suck the marrow out of life."

Mr. Keating shot a look Charlie's way. "I thought you were using it for good, Mr. Dalton."

Charlie smiled. "I am." Seeing the look in Mr. Keating's eyes, Charlie held his hands up. "I promise, Mr. Keating."

"And his promise is about as good as yours, John." Mr. Crocelli's voice was light.

"AH! Gianni." The men shook hands and started reminiscing

"Mr. Keating?"

"Yes, Nuwanda?" Mr. Keating's blue eyes danced.

"Nothing." Charlie started to walk off.

"Nothing, Mr. Dalton?"

Charlie stopped. "Mr. Keating," Charlie waited until Neal was out of earshot. "Please tell me I'm not the only one…"

"Who sees Neil?"

"Yeah."

"You're not." Mr. Keating took a step back. "Mr. Dalton, you are much changed, I must say. When I first met you, you couldn't wait to suck the marrow…the entire marrow…from life. And now…now you seem more reserved."

"Don't let this fluke moment fool you, John. Our Mr. Dalton is just as much a trouble maker now as he was at Hell-ton." Mr. Crocelli winked and smiled.

Mr. Keating smileed at Charlie as he walked down the hall. "Who was that?" Brooks' voice interrupted Charlie's memories.

"Mr. Keating." Charlie smiled and looked at Haldon. "We meet tonight."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. Otherwise, I'd have Charlie all to myself! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

* * *

Peters smiled at Charlie as he walked in the door. "Your Mr. Keating is a good guy. I can see why you hero worshipped him."

"He taught us to find our own voices, Peters." Charlie grabbed his flashlight, checking it. "Mr. Keating's visit gave me just the oomph I need. We meet tonight."

"We have this test tomorrow in Latin and…"

"We meet. Either you're there or you're not." Charlie sighed as he sat at his desk. "Find your voice, Peters. I may have only been here a couple weeks, but I see that you let everyone else live your life for you and let them speak for you. I know you're a lover of Thoreau, right?"

"Yeah. Why?" Peters faced Charlie, memorizing his features.

"In one class, Mr. Keating had us walking around and while I remember that class as though it were yesterday, the one thing that stuck out in my head was when Mr. Keating quoted Thoreau: _Most men lead lives of quiet desperation._ He told us to find our voices now because the longer we wait, the harder it will be. Don't be afraid to find your own voice, Peters." Charlie turned around and faced his roommate. "Don't be afraid to suck the marrow out of life." A smirk formed on Charlie's lips. "But, don't choke on the bone. And…" He pointed at Peters. "If you ever decide to have a phone call from God to Mr. Douglas, make it collect." He winked and returned to his homework.

* * *

Dean laughed as Haldon and Stephen tried to light a fire. "Think the sticks are too wet."

"Maybe we should just burn you." Davies smarted back.

"Forget the fire, then." Charlie called the meeting to order. "I know we just met last night and we have this test, but seeing Mr. Keating today after class gave me the encouragement I needed to come back out and find my voice." He unfolded his trademark centerfold writing pad, bringing with it the whistles and claps that accompany every young man's raging hormones. "Ahem." He coughed before reading "CLEOPATRA" by Algernon Charles Swinburne "_Her mouth is fragrant as a vine, A vine with birds in all its boughs; Serpent and scarab for a sign Between the beauty of her brows And the amorous deep lids divine_"

"Fits the picture, Charlie." Neal laughed.

"Such was the point, Neal." Charlie laughed back. "Now, who's next?"

Peters stood up and took a piece of paper from his pocket. "I wrote this for that girl I was telling you about, Dalton."

"Read!" Charlie bellowed.

Peters sighed as he looked at the poem. He prayed that Charlie wouldn't see it was really written for him. "I kinda borrowed some lines from Byron's 'She walks in beauty' because that's such a lovely poem."

"Just read it already, Peters." Singleton puffed on his cigarette.

"_She walks in Beauty, like the night; Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed; to that tender light; Which Heaven to gaudy day denies; I feel my heart pound as she passes by; Hoping she'll notice the want in my eyes; But she never stops, just hurries on her way; And I hold out to see her on another day; But, what would I, could I, ever say; To this beauty, full of wonder and of grace; Dare I tell her what's lying in the depths of my soul; Do I take a chance…do I let the dice just roll; Yes, she walks in beauty like the night; And in my dreams I'll see her one more time._" Peters sighed as he sat back down, now certain Charlie knew.

"Like I said. Sissy boy." Singleton sneered.

Charlie was beat by Neal to Singleton's remark. "Think you can do better? At least he knew who the first part of the poem was by, which is better than you." Neal puffed his cigarette. "I think you should turn that in for the English assignment."

"I can't. It…I just can't." Peters stammered. He looked quickly around the cave. "It's really a stupid poem, written for someone that I can never have." His eyes stared intently at his feet.

"And we all know who that someone is." Brooks smiled.

Peters quickly looked up, hoping he wasn't apparent. "Do you?"

Haldon smiled. "Yeah. It's for Ava Hansen. She's got a thing for you, Davey-boy. _She has a thing for EVERY BOY!_ And don't think it's gone unnoticed the way you look at her. Send her what you wrote." He puffed his cigarette, reveling in the fact that he was able to, for once, step away from his parents expectations of him and let loose. _One night, I'll sneak some whiskey in and see what happens._ He smiled at Charlie.

Charlie knew Ava Hansen all too well. At the dance held just a couple days after his enrollment in Albany, she had hung all over him all night, ignoring all the others. While this would have created enemies for some, with Charlie Dalton, it only served to create friends. Boys who were thankful there was a new guy for Ava to dig her claws into. Charlie had refused her advances, but Ava was not one to be so easily deterred. If Charlie Dalton didn't want her, someone else would and that someone was David Peters.

The boys began to laugh and exchange stories. "I think the only one she hasn't set her eyes on is Singleton." Davies laughed.

Singleton sighed. "She did. At last year's Christmas Dance."

"OOO! Spill." Neal playfully squealed.

Dean squirmed a little bit before saying anything. "She, uh, kissed me."

"Was that all?" Davies took Haldon's cigarette and took a puff.

"Uh, no." Singleton smiled. "We went behind the dance hall and we, well, _you_ know."

"Liar." Jeffery spoke softly.

"I ain't lying." Dean smirked in such a manner that Charlie wanted to belt him. "She's pretty damn good too."

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" Charlie tapped his knuckles on a rock. "Let's get this meeting back to what it was about." He looked at Peters. "Good job. Now…" He focused his attention on Dean Singleton. "Let's hear what you've got, Singleton."

"It's not mine, that's for sure, but I do like it." He unfolded a sheet of paper. "It's sick, twisted and rather disgusting…"

"Just like you, eh?" Neal poked.

Dean laughed. "Yep. Just like me." He looked around and after he 'ahemed', he began to read. "_In a mean abode on the Skankill Road Lived a man named William Bloat; He had a wife, the curse of his life, Who continually got his goat; So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on; He cut her bloody throat._"

Charlie choked on the cigarette he was smoking. Pittsie had read that poem at one of their meetings and read it with such passion and disgust that you almost felt _he_, not Raymond Calvert, had written it. "That seems to be a Dead Poet favorite." He grinned. "Anyone else?"

"I'll read something." Mr. Crocelli's voice scared them.

Charlie stood up so fast he hit his head on the roof of the cave. "Mr. Crocelli, I can…I mean…"

"_I shall be telling this with a sigh; Somewhere ages and ages hence; Two roads diverged in a wood, And I-I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference._" Mr. Crocelli smiled at the boys. "Here I thought you were studying for your test tomorrow." His eyes settled on the now unsettled Charlie Dalton. "You have no fears. You forget, Mr. Dalton, that I was a charter member of the now infamous Dead Poets Society. _The_ founder, as a matter of fact." He made himself comfortable on a jagged rock. "I am proud that each of you have chosen to take the road less traveled by and find yourselves. But, boys, I must implore that you be careful and discreet. Especially you, Mr. Dalton. Be there no smoking or drinking or women here, but be there your voices." He smiled as Haldon Brooks nonchalantly put a cigarette out. "Find yourselves, but don't lose sight of what's important gentlemen. A good education is the way to find who you are. You don't have to follow blindly like lemmings. Just learn. Learn enough to find yourself." He stood up, patting Charlie's shoulder. "Your voices will be heard one day and we will all fear them. Be sure you know your stuff. Time, tide, and tests wait for no man." He smiled and left, leaving the boys speechless.

Charlie laughed nervously as he sat back down, rubbing the top of his head. "Well, if that's not one for the books, gentlemen, I don't know what is. Now," He looked around. "Where were we?" He leaned back and lit up another cigarette.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. Otherwise, I'd have Charlie all to myself! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

* * *

_My poor Charlie. You can see it in his eyes…he's hurting. Often I wish I could just hold him and kiss him and make it all go away._ Peters stopped writing for a moment, gazing over the lake behind Albany. It was lovely the way it was frozen over. Peters loved Study Hall. He not only had a chance to write in his journal without suspicion, but he could gaze at Charlie, while saying he was really looking at the lake. After all, Charlie sat in front of the window directly in front of the lake. Peters sighed and resumed writing.

_His darling teacher Mr. Keating came by a couple weeks ago and Charlie came to life! He called an immediate meeting of the Dead Poets Society and Mr. Crocelli – our Latin teacher – made a surprise visit, but was not condemning. And my Charlie…I read him the poem that was written for him. Told the guys it was for someone I could never have…they all thought Ava, but alas. It was for Charlie. Lovely, dark haired Charlie._

_I long to hold him and soothe away his pain. But he doesn't look at me like that. He never will. Last night, I dreamt of him. I dreamt of his full lips kissing me, his body pressed closed to mine. I dreamt of him telling me that he too loved me and he was happy I had told him._

_But reality isn't as romantic as dreams though. But this morning…it seemed to be. He didn't say he loved me or kissed me, but I woke up early and watched him sleep. God! He's an angel. He quietly…ever so quietly…snores. The best way for me to describe it…it's the sound a cat makes as it purrs. Never too loud. Never too soft. Just perfect. My heart leapt as he turned, facing me. His face was soft and there was a small smirk. How I love it when he smirks! If on…_

The bell interrupted Peters' writing. He sighed as he gathered his things. He focused on Charlie, who was walking with the air of confidence that made men and women dizzy with delight. Peters smiled to himself, imagining once again, the feel of Charlie's arms around him, blocking out the world.

"Mr. Peters! I suggest you hurry up!" Mr. Harrington's voice echoed loudly. Peters hated their Trig teacher with a passion.

He slowly sat at his desk, eyeing Charlie. Ever since that night in the cave, when he read his poem, he found himself thinking more and more about Charlie. As he opened his book to their assignment, his journal fell and Dean Singleton picked it up. Peters held his breath, sure Singleton would hold it captive and read it. Then, his love for Charlie would be revealed and…"Here. You dropped this." Dean handed the journal back to Peters, without so much as asking what it was.

"Thanks." Peters took the book back and smiled.

"Gentlemen. Let's get started." Mr. Harrington bellowed.

* * *

Charlie sat in the cave, alone, reading by flashlight, when another figure entered the cave. "Thought I'd find you here."

Charlie looked up. "Hey, Peters." He pointed his flashlight at a rock. "Have a seat, if you want."

"Why are you here alone?" Peters asked as he attempted to make himself comfortable on the rock.

Charlie shrugged. "Not sure. I've got this feeling of regret and I can't figure out what it is. And I wanted to be alone."

"What are you reading?" Peters gently took the book from Charlie. "Whitman."

"Yeah." Charlie took a drink from a bottle. "Great poet, wasn't he?" He leaned back against the rocks. "'I SOUND MY BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFS OF THE WORLD!' YAAAWWWP!" Charlie's voice echoed loudly in the small cave.

"You drunk?" Peters eyes opened wide.

"Just a little." Charlie grinned. "Enough to forget this day."

"What happened today, Charlie?"

"Here." Charlie threw a sheet of paper at Peters. "Read for yourself."

Peters picked up the paper that fell on the ground. "You sure?"

"Read it!" Charlie demanded. "And aloud, if you don't mind."

"Okay." Peters heaved a sigh as he read the words. "_Charles, I heard of what happened with your beloved Neil Perry and your expulsion. It has taken me a while to write because I've been super busy at the bank and with Karen and Lucy and find that I don't have time to concern myself with petty matters. And I also had to find the words to say to you. I know you've been through a lot, Charles, but you need to learn to deal with it. Not that I can say I'm sorry because you deserved everything you got, 'Nuwanda'. (Just where did that name come from anyway? Neil? Richard? Or was it something your sad little brain thought up? Regardless, it's ridiculous.) I'm just really sorry that you can't seem to find yourself…seem to see who you really are. You're nothing but a fake, Charles. You always have been. Father and Mother are disappointed in you. Why do you think they sent you to Albany? It is where Michael went when he failed out of Welton. At least he failed, Charles. You? You created trouble. You were trouble the minute you were born. Maybe that's why you're the last of us. You're nothing, youngest brother of mine. You always have been and you always will be. Our family would be so much better off if you weren't a part of it. We are all disappointed in you. Sorry about your troubles...but you made your bed, and now you must lay in it. And this shall be the very last correspondence you shall receive from me, for I am truly disappointed in you and all your endeavors and wish no part of your downhill run. We are all disappointed in you. I would hope that you see the dangers in thinking for yourself and will turn your life around and just follow the status quo and that you have a better life from it. Only, I think it already too late. Very sincerely yours, William Butler Dalton"_ Peters wiped a tear as he looked at Charlie, who downed another swig of whatever alcohol he was drinking. "Wow. Some family." He tried to joke.

"When I got expelled from Hell-ton, my father looked at me and said he was just waiting for that day to arrive. He was actually surprised I hadn't been expelled freshman year." Charlie rolled his head to look at Peters. "My brother Michael came here after failing out of Hell-ton, but he was a mouse. Always did what he was told, but he was not an academic like William was. William. Perfect William Butler." He looked at his friend. "Named after the Irish poet William Butler Yeats, my mother's favorite poet. Now, there was a scholar! He aced every class and never raised Cain. Always did what he was told, not one time did he ever question."

"And then there's you." Peters smiled.

"Yes, then there's me. The one who constantly disappoints." Charlie leaned in closer to Peters, making the latter's heart pound with want. "I was a disappointment from the very start because both Mother and Father wanted a little girl and here I came…a little boy."

Peters licked his lips, in an attempt to keep from kissing Charlie. "I'm not so disappointed in you."

"What you mean?"

"You taught me how to live…to suck the marrow of life." Peters smiled. "You taught me to find my own voice. To find my own self worth within me." Charlie's lips were tempting and Peters fought to keep from placing his on the lips of his object of affection. He knew Charlie was drunk and would, more likely than not, forget it happened, but Peters could not let himself take advantage of the situation, leaving the kissing of Charlie Dalton in his dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…except for Neal, Dean, Haldon, Peters, Mr. Crocelli, Steven, Jeffery. If I _DID_ own the characters (Uh, DPS ones, obviously!), I'd have Charlie all to myself! And the things we could do in that Indian cave! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA**

**However, in this chapter, we see more of the vulnerable side of our beloved Nuwanda. Hope you have the hankies ready! ahaha

* * *

**

"What are you thinking, Peters?" Charlie pressed.

"Things I shouldn't." Peters sighed.

"Hey. I'm drunk. I won't remember a goddamned thing in the morning." Charlie laughed. "You read my problem. So, what's eating at you?"

"You ever wanted someone that you knew you could never have?" Peters accepted the whiskey Charlie handed to him.

"We all have at some point in our lives, Peters." Charlie pulled out another bottle of whiskey. "But that's what makes life interesting."

"That's not the point, Charlie." As Peters said that, Charlie remembered Knox leaning against the bulletin board near the phone after calling Kris.

"Then what is the point?" Charlie was having what he felt was a strong case of déjà vu.

"The point, Charlie…" _Damn déjà vu!_ Charlie thought to himself as Peters sighed. "The point is that I'll never have who I want." Peters took a long swallow of the whiskey.

"Whatever happened to 'Carpe Diem', Peters?" Charlie opened the extra bottle. "You may wind up with the lovely girl of your dreams if you want it bad enough." He took a long sip.

"'Carpe Diem' exists only in a world where one will not be condemned for seizing the day." Peters remarked, shaking off the new bottle Charlie was offering, showing him he had the old one.

"And 'gathering rosebuds while ye may'" Charlie drunkenly laughed, remembering the first class of Mr. Keating's.

"Exactly." Peters sipped another bit of whiskey, feeling its effects immediately. "The point is that, while 'Carpe Diem' is a good sentiment to have, it's not always reasonable to just seize the moment."

Charlie looked at his roommate and recalled words Mr. Keating had spoken the very first day. "We are food for worms, Peters. Either you live for the moment or you live for the future. Remember Thoreau said that he didn't want to come to die to discover he had not lived. You cannot live for both the present and the future. One day, Peters, you'll come to your deathbed and your eyes will be closing in death and you'll regret one thing: that you are dying and discover you hadn't lived. That will be your regret."

"What is it you regret, Charlie?" Peters changed the subject from him to Charlie. _My regret, my only regret, is never being able to be with you. I'll never be able to hold you close and comfort you when you're sad or wipe your tears as you cry. As I lay dying, that will be my regret: unrequited love._

"Peters?"

"Yeah?"

"Cal me 'Nuwanda'."

"Why 'Nuwanda'?"

"Because that's my name." Charlie smiled.

"Okay, _Nuwanda_. What is it you regret?"

Charlie paused a moment. "I regret not letting Neil know what a great friend he was."

"Our Neal?"

"No. Neil Perry. The kid from Welton who killed himself." Charlie leaned back. "He was a good kid with a father that was too overbearing."

"Like your dad?"

"Oh no!" Charlie sat straight up. "Despite his need to control Neil's life, Mr. Perry _loved_ his son. I'd place money on that. When we saw him at Neil's funeral, he could…he was…it hurt him to…while he didn't cry, you could see the pain. Mr. Perry never cried in public. But, Neil was his only child and…there's no doubt he loved him. My father is overbearing with me because he expects me to be just like William or Michael. Mostly William. Their disappointment in Michael stopped when he became a successful lawyer. Beautiful wife. Brand new beautiful baby girl." Nuwanda took a long swallow from the new whiskey bottle. "But, then again…they were never truly disappointed in him anyway."

Peters sat closer to Charlie and patted his shoulder. "Let's get you back to bed. Come on." He stood and attempted to help Charlie stand. The end result was Charlie losing his balance and falling in such a manner Peters ended up on top of him.

Charlie found the situation funny and started laughing. "Yes, Peters. Let's get me to bed!" He howled.

Peters made no attempt to move, but just looked at Charlie, who seemed to be completely oblivious to things at this point. "How drunk are you really, Nuwanda?"

"Let's just say I'm thankful tomorrow's Saturday and I don't have class. I have had at least two and a half bottles of whiskey and…why?"

Peters shrugged as he helped Charlie stand. "Because…ah, forget it. Come on."

Charlie refused to move. "You've been dancing around a bush all night. What is it you're trying to say? Tips for wooing women? First of all…" His words were cut off by Peters hand covering his lips. Pushing them away, Charlie looked at Peters. "What was that for?"

"You want someone to hear? Jesus, Charlie. You're a loud drunk and I'm sure you've woken up half of Albany by now."

"Even though we're a couple miles away?" Charlie laughed.

"Come on, Charlie." Peters took the hand of his obsession and started walking to the front of the cave. Charlie tripped on a rock and landed face down in the mud, bringing Peters down with him. "Come on, Charlie." He tried to stand up, but slipped in the mud, causing Charlie to laugh harder.

Charlie sat up and wiped some mud off his face. "Peters, maybe I should wait until I'm sober enough to even walk."

Peters sat up and helped wipe mud off of Charlie's face. "Maybe, but you do need to get to bed. You're too drunk to stay out here alone."

Charlie hung his head. "But I want to be alone with the ghosts of my life."

_If Charlie Dalton didn't just sober up._ Peters thought as he took a seat on a rock. "You're not staying out here alone when you're drunk, Nuwanda." A cold wind blew suddenly in the cave. "You might freeze to death." Peters sat next to Charlie. "Come on. I'll stay with you for a while, okay?"

"Okay." Charlie suddenly didn't feel so alone. He sat next to Peters and put his head on his shoulder. "Why are you here?"

Peters felt his heart racing at Charlie's closeness. "When you didn't show up for 'lights out', I knew something had to be up. You seemed to be withdrawn most of the day and it all started last night at mail call. Well, now I know why. Charlie, no matter what your family says about you, you're no disappointment." Peters didn't know why, but he placed his head on Charlie's and was surprised when the latter didn't try to move.

"You've not known me long enough, Peters."

"When you first came here, you were unstoppable. You were arrogant and confident. Don't let your family…your brother's words take that from you. It is what drew people…what _draws_ people…to you, Charlie. It's why we all clamor to be near you." He felt Charlie look at him. "It's why I…" Peters stopped and held his head up.

"Why you what?" Charlie looked up at his roommate, keeping his head on Peters' shoulder as it kept the cave from spinning too much.

"Nothing. I feel the whiskey and I talk nonsense when I've had something to drink like that." Peters shifted uncomfortably, knowing the urge to kiss Charlie was growing stronger the longer the two of them sat in that cave. He felt Charlie sigh. "What's wrong?"

"No one ever really tells people what we really feel, do we? We always hide it like it's some sort of secret we can never reveal for if we do, we reveal ourselves and we're too scared to. Well, except for my family. They've revealed how they feel about me." Charlie sat up, tears streaming down his mud stained cheeks.

Peters wiped a couple stray tears from Charlie's cheek. "It's their loss, Nuwanda, not yours. You…you're perfect the way you are. Rebellious. Strong willed. Confident. You know who you are and you're happy with it." His hand stayed on Charlie's cheek. Still Charlie made no effort to move. Peters felt that Charlie was too drunk to move and he looked at his roommate and felt his heart soften at the sad forlorn look replacing the cocky confident one. "I so admire that about you, Nuwanda." Peters voice softened. "It's what we all so admire." _And what I love._

"I know I was a jackass to you when I first came, Peters." Alcohol was present on Charlie's breath. "I guess it's because you remind me so much of Todd and…well, Neil had just died and I couldn't…wouldn't let myself be vulnerable again." He looked at Peters, slightly aware of the former's hand on his cheek, softly wiping tears. "But, you're the only one I could talk to tonight. The only one who'd understand." Charlie couldn't explain why his heart was beating faster and he suddenly felt nervous.

"Well, I'm glad I could be of some service." Peters kept his voice low. The closeness to Charlie was too much to bear and he leaned in and softly kissed him. To his surprise, Charlie didn't pull away at first, but Peters felt that he had taken advantage of his drunken friend and pulled away. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I just…I don't…" His words were cut off from Charlie's lips. Peters could taste the alcohol and prayed that Charlie wouldn't remember this in the morning, but for now, as the kiss deepened, he was going to enjoy the feel of Charlie 'Nuwanda' Dalton in his arms, kissing him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…except for Neal, Dean, Haldon, Peters, Mr. Crocelli, Steven, Jeffery. If I _DID_ own the characters (Uh, DPS ones, obviously!), I'd have Charlie all to myself! And it would be me in that Indian cave making out with Charlie! ME! YOU HEAR ME? ME! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA**

**This chapter is more flashback than actual. It's a little more slash than I like to write…hope it's not too much. Hope you like. _Flashbacks are bolded and italicized.

* * *

_**

Charlie woke up the next morning and wondered how he got to bed. The last thing he remembered was grabbing the letter, Whitman's poetry, five stolen bottles of whiskey and his flashlight. He remembered being in the cave, but everything else became a blur to him. He saw Peters sleeping quietly in the bed across the small room. He quietly stood up, feeling the room spin as he did and he sat back down. Peters shifted in his bed and Charlie looked at him. _Shit!_ He thought as he saw mud on Peters' forehead. _He was there. What did we do? What did we…_Charlie fell back as the memory of the night before flooded back. _He read the letter and he saw me cry. Jesus! He'll never let me live it down!_

Peters woke up and looked at the hung over Charlie Dalton. "You okay?"

Charlie sat up. "What happened in that cave last night, Peters?"

Peters sat up. "You don't remember?"

"No. I remember you being there. Well, I _vaguely_ remember that. I remember you reading a letter from my brother and that's it. That's all I can remember."

_Good. He doesn't remember the kissing._ "We simply talked, Charlie. Well, Nuwanda, I should say."

"How'd you know?"

"Well, not only was it mentioned in the letter from W.B. Dalton, but you asked me to call you by that name as well." Peters didn't want to give away the excitement he felt at knowing that the night before, his dream of kissing Charlie Dalton had come true. _Now, if I can just make love to him. Get him drunk enough._ He joked in his head. "You don't remember anything else?"

Charlie shook his head, causing the room to violently spin. "No, I don't."

"Well, I shouldn't wonder. You had about five bottles of whiskey there and you said you had drunk about two and a half bottles." Peters made a promise to himself to not tell Charlie about the kissing. Even if Charlie didn't remember, Peters would. "Maybe you should go back to sleep and try to sleep off the whiskey. I'm going to go shower." Peters grabbed his stuff and headed off to the showers, images of the night before playing like a movie in his mind.

"_**Just relax, Charlie." Peters murmured into Charlie's neck. "It's like kissing a girl." He gently nipped at Charlie's collarbone, leaving a small mark. He felt Charlie tense up again and gently nuzzled the soft neck he dreamt of kissing for so long.**_

"_**Only you're not really a girl." Charlie, though unsure of the situation, made no attempt to stop Peters from kissing him. Instead, he found a small part of him enjoyed Peters shyly nipping at his neck. There was something comforting about it, something he couldn't explain. Charlie knew he loved women and yet, he found himself attracted to Peters and not sure if he wanted to stop or continue. He thought about the book his father had at home and thought that maybe Kinsey was right. Maybe there was a part of men that enjoyed being with other men in this manner. Maybe it had nothing to do with the gender of the person, but the connection. Whatever it was, Charlie was still uncertain of what was going on.**_

_**Peters read into the uncertainty of his beloved Nuwanda and stopped. "Maybe we should just get you back to the room and get you in bed." Charlie backed up from Peters. "I don't mean it like that. I mean that you need to get some sleep because you're terribly drunk and you'll feel it in the morning." He stood up, helping the now dazed, drunk, and confused Charlie Dalton up. "Come on."**_

_**Charlie didn't move. "Look, Peters. Before we go anywhere…" Charlie slurred.**_

"_**I know. You like girls. I like guys. I won't say a thing. I promise."**_

"_**Dead poets honor?" Charlie remembered Knox using that when his honor was challenged.**_

"_**Dead poets honor." Peters promised, even though at this point, he didn't know what that meant.**_

"_**Okay." Charlie stepped towards Peters and gave him one final kiss, sending Peters back on his heels. "I need sleep."

* * *

**_

Charlie sighed. He hated Trig and this test was going to give him fits. As he rolled his head, searching for an answer, his eyes settled on Peters, a couple chairs ahead of him. He couldn't help but feel more had happened in the cave than Peters was saying.

_**Charlie felt an excitement rising as Peters snaked their tongues together. He knew he shouldn't want it, especially considering it was a guy. He felt maybe it was the forbideness of it all. Maybe, there was a part of him that knew there'd be trouble if they got caught. But, Charlie lived for trouble. For as long as he could remember, he was always pushing the boundaries. Still, as Peters' fingers softly intertwined themselves in Charlie's hair, the latter didn't know if he was ready for this sort of trouble. And the former felt it and pulled away.**_

Charlie hit his head hard on the desk. He suddenly remembered what happened in the cave. _I cannot believe I made out with Peters!_

"Mr. Dalton, I am not grading you on whether or not you can sleep." Mr. Harrington's voice rang out.

"Sorry, Sir." Charlie sat up and finished his test, finding it hard to concentrate. He still had two classes with Peters and then…J_esus! He's my roommate! How can I face him now? What will he say? What will he do? Will he think I'm…that I want…_Charlie found it harder to concentrate on anything else. _All I have to do for now is survive these last two classes._

**_Peters gently rubbed his fingertips on the back of Charlie's neck, reveling in hearing the moans of pleasure. This was what he dreamt of as he watched Charlie sleep and walk. Shit. Every time he saw Charlie. The lips were just as full and soft as Peters imagined they would be. And the hair…that luxurious crop of brown hair that was often mussed because of nervous fingers running through it as Charlie sat, trying to figure out the assignments. Now, it was Peters' turn to muss it up and he gently did_**.

_**He knew he would push the limit, but he was interested in seeing just how far he could go before Charlie said anything or moved. He pulled away and looked into Nuwanda's brown eyes. Nuwanda. Now, that name had a certain shy sexiness to it that Peters would have stamped in his mind. He leaned back in, leaving a trail of kisses from Charlie's lips to his collarbone. Despite the cold, Peters pulled back the sweater Charlie was wearing to reveal soft skin. How a rower and a soccer player could have skin so soft, Peters knew he would never know, but he enjoyed the softness of it.**_

_**He could smell the vague scent of a cologne under the alcohol and Peters found himself intoxicated from just the scent of Charlie. He knew he couldn't have him and it was driving him insane. Kissing is all he could get from Charlie Dalton and Peters argued with himself that if that was all he was going to get, then that was what he was going to get and he was fine with it. As long as he got to kiss Charlie Dalton.**_

_**And what a kiss it was. Peters had never been kissed so gently. He had never been kissed with a soft want from anyone and the one person he never expected to kiss was giving him the type of kisses he only dreamt of. Charlie was, despite being drunk, still a little shy about returning the kisses, but there were moments of sheer ecstasy for Peters when Charlie became a little braver and kissed him back with such passion that Peters felt the world spinning.**_

_**He felt on top of the world and ready to explode as Charlie's lip expertly sucked on his neck. There was a silkiness to it that made Peters want to scream, but he softly moaned instead, as to not give away his secret; his fantasy come true.**_

_**Charlie felt like exploding as well. He had never really kissed a guy. He and Neil had, at one point, kissed on a dare from Cameron sophomore year, but it was really more like a peck on the lips than a kiss. Charlie recalled the look in Neil's eyes after that and as he stared at Peters, he saw that same look of wanting more. He hadn't given it to Neil, but he was going to give it Peters. He leaned in and almost forcefully kissed his roommate. Not that Peters cared. He found it intoxicating that Charlie would be almost forceful.**_

_**Peters caught his breath as Charlie sat back. He wanted to say something, but couldn't. He was finding it hard to breath. He made no argument as the drunken young man pulled him to his side. Peters looked over at Charlie and smiled, and to his surprise, Charlie smiled back. There was an inviting look in Charlie's eyes and the kissing began again.**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…except for Neal, Dean, Haldon, Peters, Mr. Crocelli, Steven, Jeffery. If I _DID_ own the characters (Uh, DPS ones, obviously!), I'd have Charlie all to myself! And the things we could do in that Indian cave! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA**

**The poem is THE TWO VOICES by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

* * *

**

_I still cannot believe it happened. And, I know it's a one time only 'I was too drunk that I'll never remember it happening' kiss for him, but for me! O me! O life! I find that I shall never look at him the same. It is doubtful he'll look at me the same as well, but I feel like…it's hard to describe…_Peters heard Charlie coming down the hall and quickly hid his journal. He tried to act casual when Charlie came in. "Hey, Charlie."

"Hey." Charlie mumbled back. He had started remembering certain aspects of what happened in the cave and he found himself unsure of what to do next. He sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on the Chemistry homework Mr. Hillard assigned.

"Charlie? You okay?" Peters worried that whatever friendship had been blooming between them was now fading.

Charlie turned around and faced his roommate. "Look, I don't want you to think any…I don't want you to…"

"You remember?" Peters turned around and sunk in his chair, feeling deflated. Tears formed in his eyes and he prepared himself for the shot.

"Yeah…vaguely, but I do remember." Charlie faced the wall opposite of his desk. "Nothing changes, pal."

"What do you mean 'Nothing changes'?"

"I still dig girls, okay? What you got on Saturday is all you're getting. I'm not into men."

Peters sighed a huge breath of relief. "Yeah, I got it."

"No one knows. Tell no one anything." Charlie faced his roommate, who was looking at him.

"Can I say one thing before we drop that it ever happened?" Peters pleaded.

Charlie shrugged. "Sure, then it's over and done with."

"I never meant for it to happen. You were just…I don't know…there came a point when it…it seemed natural to lean in and kiss you. I'm fine with it being a one time only deal. I mean, I know you're all about women. See, I've always known I've never been. I just can't…I can't be as open as who I want as you can. If anyone knew, I'd be kicked out and disowned." He looked at Charlie. "But, when you…this is going to change everything, but what the hell? Carpe diem, right?" He sighed. "I have this crush on you, Nuwanda. You're everything I'm not and I like that about you. And besides, if that's how you kiss…God! I wish I were a woman!" He laughed.

Charlie found himself laughing as well. "My dad has this book at home by Kinsey. It's a few years old by now. I think Kinsey wrote and published it in 1948 or 49, but it's interesting. He tried to keep it from us, but you know me. Always snooping about. Well, I found it and one part of it pretty much hints that every man has a need to be with another man. Or at least that's how I read it."

"When did you read this book?" Peters now faced his crush face to face.

"Over break a couple years ago. In fact, it was because of the book, that Neil Perry and I were dared to kiss." He laughed in memory.

"Did you?" Peters was now fully intrigued.

"Just a small peck on the lips, that was it, but I sensed he wanted more." Charlie sighed. "Anyway, even if you and I didn't…well, we connected and I think that our friendship shouldn't change because of it, but I suspect I'll be a little…"

"Nervous? Anxious?" Peters smiled.

"Jumpy, yeah. But I don't remember everything. We just kissed, right?"

"If you're asking if any articles of clothing were removed, no. It did get rather hot though. And uh…you may want to think of an excuse for the uh, mark, on your collarbone."

"WHAT?" Charlie freaked. "I don't remember…" He unbuttoned his shirt and saw the mark Peters had left. "What the…?" He looked at Peters.

"Sorry. I got carried away."

Charlie sat back in his chair, feeling defeated. Making out with Peters was one thing, but to have the former leave a mark? What would Charlie say it was from? He stood up. "I gotta…I can't…." Peters watched Charlie leave, wondering if he still meant 'nothing changes'.

Neal ran up and caught up with Charlie. "We were thinking…you okay, Charlie?" Neal got concerned when Charlie glared at him.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit. You're walking like you're going to kill someone." Neal doubled his pace to keep up with Charlie. "What's going on?"

"I just need to be alone." Charlie barked as he made his way to the cave.

Neal sighed and walked up to the room Peters and Charlie shared. "Hey." He opened the door quietly.

Peters jumped. He quickly shut the journal he'd been writing in and tried to hide it. "Hey. What's up?"

"I was going to ask you. Charlie is heading to the cave, looking like he's ready to kill. Do you know why?"

_of course I know why. I was a fool to think that Nuwanda could just act like it never happened or even be thankful it did. He was okay until…what did I do?_ "No, I don't. I think it may have something to do with the letter he received from home a couple days ago."

"Why brood about it now?" Neal looked at the journal in Peters' hand.

"You know Charlie." Peters smiled. "If you don't mind, I'm trying to think of a poem to read at the next DPS meeting."

Neal got the hint. He nodded and made his way to the cave. "Charlie?" His voice echoed.

"Dammit, Neal. It's Nuwanda!" Charlie smiled as he held up a bottle of whiskey.

Neal laughed. "'Nuwanda'?"

"Yeah. 'Nuwanda'. Dammit. The alcohol isn't working quickly enough." Charlie was tempted to throw it, but he didn't want to waste the alcohol.

"Where'd you get that?" Neal took it from Charlie and took a sip.

"Don't ask. Don't tell. I just got it." Charlie winked.

Neal smiled. Charlie Dalton was an enigma. One day he was the tough arrogant 'I will kick your ass if you do that to me again' prick and the next he was this sad vulnerable young man that felt life was stacked against him. _Charlie Dalton doesn't want to be figured out_. Neal thought as he took yet another sip. _The mystery of who he really is is what he thrives on. He'll never be figured out._ Neal sat back and wondered what mystery Charlie Dalton would create in that cave on that night.

He didn't have to wonder long as Charlie began to recite a Tennyson poem. "_A still small voice spake unto me; 'Thou art so full of misery; Were it not better not to be?; Then to the still small voice I said; 'Let me not cast in endless shade; What is so wonderfully made.'"_

"'The Two Voices'?"

Charlie nodded. "Yep. It pretty much sums up how I feel."

"You hear voices?" Neal suppressed a laugh.

"No, idiot. Think of the poem. It is a struggle of one man to determine the worth of his life." He recited more of the poem.

"_Then did my response clearer fall:_

'_No compound of this earthly ball_

_Is like another, all in all.'_

_To which he answer'd scoffingly;_

'_Good soul! suppose I grant it thee,_

_Who'll weep for thy deficiency?_

'_Or will one beam be less intense,_

_When thy peculiar differenee_

_Is cancell'd in the world of sense?'_

_I would have said, 'Thou canst not know,'_

_But my full heart, that work'd below,_

_Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow._

_Again the voice spake unto me:_

'_Thou art so steep'd in misery,_

_Surely 'twere better not to be._

'_Thine anguish will not let thee sleep,_

_Nor any train of reason keep:_

_Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.'"_

Neal sat, looking at Charlie, wondering what the recital of the poem meant, if anything.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…except for Neal, Dean, Haldon, Peters, Mr. Crocelli, Steven, Jeffery. If I _DID_ own the characters (Uh, DPS ones, obviously!), I'd have Charlie all to myself! And the things we could do in that Indian cave! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA**

**Get hankies ready! Sad needing comfort Nuwanda ahead.  
**

* * *

"I call this meeting of the Dead Poets Society to order." Charlie blew his saxophone in an off key note, sending the others in fits of laughter. "Who wants to go first?" 

Jeffery stood up. He was tall and lanky like Pitts, but a little more sure of himself. "I found this poem of W.B. Yeats." Peters glanced over at Charlie, who seemed unfazed by it. White 'ahemed'. "'_The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart_' by W.B. Yeats.

_All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,_

_The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,_

_The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,_

_Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart._

_The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;_

_I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,_

_With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold_

_For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart."_

Jeffery finished it with a flair and a bow, while the others cheered and clapped.

Charlie blew hard and off key again on his saxophone. He found himself lost in another time, at another school. As he played erratically, he paused, just as he had at Welton, speaking the same poem. "Laughing, crying, tumbling, mumbling. Gotta do more. Gotta be more." He played more erratic sounds. "Chaos screaming, chaos dreaming. Gotta do more! Gotta be more!" And, as he had that day long ago in the old Indian cave under Knox's nose, he played a real tune under Haldon's nose.

Peters glanced at Charlie, awed by what had just transpired. Charlie Dalton was hard to figure out and he made sure that he let everyone know that Charles Rutherford Dalton was not an easy man to peg. Once someone thought they had him pegged, Charlie would change with an unpredictableness of an earthquake. Charlie didn't want to be pegged as anything. He wanted to live and as he played that saxophone so beautifully, with fingers of an expert, Peters felt that Charlie was indeed living.

Haldon Brooks and Neal Henry clapped and whistled while the others still sat in shock over Charlie's performance. Neal stood up, hitting his head on the low roof, causing Charlie to laugh. If it hadn't been Charlie, Neal would have been angry, but there was a sinister innocence to Charlie that made it impossible to be mad at him, so Neal joined in laughing. He rubbed his head and stopped laughing long enough to speak. "We have a musical virtuoso in our midst, gentlemen. I think…" The alcohol the boys had been sharing was starting to take its vicious grip on Neal. "I think…" Neal suddenly burst out laughing hard. "I think I forgot what I was gonna say."

Peters laughed nervously. He hadn't ever really drank alcohol, minus the night he made out with Charlie. "How come none of us ever knew you could play the saxophone?" Charlie merely grinned. _And so the enigma of Charlie Dalton goes on._ Peters thought.

* * *

_We snuck away Friday night for a meeting and discovered things we didn't know about each other and ourselves. Neal Henry can't handle whiskey very well. He was trying to say something after Nuwanda's poem, but forgot what he was going to say. White…what do you ever say about him? He's a good kid. One that we should be proud to call friend. Singleton…none of us really care for him. I think he's there just for us to pick on. And Charlie. Charlie Dalton plays the saxophone. He plays it so beautifully, so magically. When he was playing it…even when he was playing haphazardly in the cave the other day, reciting that poem…he was…I only hope the others didn't see my want. I was so entranced by the spell he was weaving with his instrument. It was hard to not imagine that his fingers were that…well, that gentle touching me. Will never happen, but I can still dream and I can still taste his alcohol induced kiss._ Peters looked up from his journal when he heard the bell dismissing them from second study hall ringing loudly. He quickly closed his journal and made his way to his room to catch up on Latin and Trig. 

He opened the door and saw Charlie already sitting at his desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper. Nuwanda looked up and painfully grinned. "Hey."

Peters put his books on his desk. "You okay, Nuwanda?"

"Yeah. Just trying to do this assignment that Mr. Evans gave us."

"How long you been sitting here?" Peters sat on Charlie's bed, looking at him.

"I skipped second study hall. Well, not skipped, exactly." Charlie expanded no further.

Peters said nothing. Charlie was dealing with something and he wasn't going to talk about it. Somehow, the boy that Charlie was when he showed up at Albany was not the boy that was sitting at his desk. He was withdrawn and private. Peters moved to his desk to start his assignment. He heard rapid scratching of pen against paper and the door slamming. He looked over, only to see Charlie gone, but his assignment on his desk. Peters knew he shouldn't read it, but the temptation to see what was hurt his beloved was too much.

_Neil,_

_I wanted so much to tell you these words while you were alive, but couldn't. You're my best friend and I never got to tell you. Perhaps I already felt you knew. Perhaps you already did know. After all, you knew me better than anyone, including myself. I think I would have pulled more idiotic stunts if you were never my first roommate. You always had…Neil, you always had ways of being who you wanted to be while still being what everyone else felt you should be. You never let them bring you down. You still dreamed and you dreamed big._

_To see you on that stage as 'Puck', I was proud. So proud I nearly burst. You were fantastic and now I'll never read that play again without thinking of how brilliant you were. You deserved the standing ovation. You deserved our 'yawping'. You deserved to live. You deserved to be happy. You didn't deserve to be a prisoner to your father's dreams for you._

_You certainly didn't deserve to die. We, your friends, didn't deserve it either._

_When you died, Neil…rather, when you killed yourself, it killed us. Todd. Knox. Pittsie. Meeks. Mr. Keating. Me. Each one of us died with you that night. You meant something to us, Neil. You weren't just a friend. You were our unspoken leader. None of us would have done anything unless we felt you would do it or it met with your approval. The class may have collectively called Mr. Keating 'Captain', but you were the true 'Captain', Neil._

_Each of us asked what we could have done to have protected you that night. Should we have ripped you from the car? Should we have called you? Gone to visit you? Could we, the Dead Poet's Society, your closest friends, have done something to save you?_

_Couldn't you have talked to us? Couldn't you have come to me and talked? I would have conned my parents for some money to get you to New York or Los Angeles or where ever you wanted to go to get away from your dad's influence. ANYTHING, Neil. All of us would have helped you if you had only asked._

_But you never did._

_Now…now I'm here…writing a letter to someone who influenced me for an English assignment (which I'll never read. I'll say I didn't do it and get a flunking grade because no one here understands)…at another Prep School because…because…Shit, Neil. Does it matter? Does anything matter anymore? Without friends, nothing matters. Without hope…without life. Nothing matters anymore, 'Captain'. NOTHING!_

_I've tried to maintain the whole happy-go-lucky-fuck-the-rules Charlie Dalton that you knew. But, dammit, Neil. It's not easy. Yes, I've made friends here, but none like you. None of them know me. I intend, 'Captain', to keep it that way._

_And, oh yeah. Just so you know…I hate you for doing what you did. It solved nothing, Perry. All it did was bring an emptiness that should never be. But, I have forgiven you. I don't know how you saw it as your only way out, but who knows what any of us may have done had we worn your shoes that night._

_I talk to Todd every once in a while and he's not doing so well. Sure, he's got Knoxious there, but still. It's not the same is it? Your final act tore us apart. None of us will ever be the same._

_We loved you, Neil. And now, none of us can ever tell you._

_How could you be so selfish?_

_Nuwanda_

Peters sat at Charlie's desk, trying not to cry. He didn't know who Neil Perry, but apparently whoever he was had a big influence on Charlie. He finally understood why Charlie had been acting withdrawn since the assignment had been handed out. He sat on his bed and stared at the empty chair. He hated this Neil Perry for hurting Charlie this bad and if he wasn't already dead, Peters felt he would have killed him himself for hurting his roommate.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…except for Neal, Dean, Haldon, Peters, Mr. Crocelli, Steven, Jeffery. If I _DID_ own the characters (Uh, DPS ones, obviously!), I'd have Charlie all to myself! And the things we could do in that Indian cave! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA**

* * *

"Hello?" A strange voice came over the phone.

"Um, yes. Hello. Is this Mr. Keating's residence?" Peters couldn't hide the nervousness in his voice.

"May I ask who's calling, please?"

"My name is David Peters and I'm a friend of Charlie Dalton's at Albany. Uh, I'm his roommate as well."

"Hold please." Peters sighed as the voice yelled. "John! Phone. Some kid about that Dalton kid."

"Hello? John Keating."

"Hi, Mr. Keating. I don't know if you'll remember me, but I'm Charlie Dalton's roommate at Albany…"

"Ah, yes. Mr. Peters is it?"

"Yes, Mr. Keating."

"How may I be of service to you, Mr. Peters?" Peters wondered how Mr. Keating could be so upbeat and calm.

"It's Charlie, sir. He's not acting like himself."

"What's wrong?" Mr. Keating's voice suddenly became soft and concerned.

"We had this assignment…well, it all really started with the letter he received from his oldest brother a couple weeks back and now this assignment. He's becoming withdrawn and more private."

"What did his brother say?"

Peters wiped a tear from his eye. "That he was never good enough and he was a mistake."

Mr. Keating sighed on the other end. "I'll be up as soon as I can."

"Mr. Keating?"

"Yes, Mr. Peters?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Peters hung up the phone and walked back to his room. As he opened the door, he was surprised to see Charlie jumping on his bed. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Charlie stopped jumping and sat down. "It's just been hard with…"

"Look, I don't know what happened, but you're not the same person you were when you started here." Peters sighed. "I know that letter was hard to read, but…"

"Ever lose someone really close to you, Peters? Someone you would have given _your_ life for?"

Peters shrugged. "No."

"I can deal with the letter from my brother just fine. It's…" Charlie sighed. "That's far from the issue here."

"What is the issue?"

Charlie smiled. Talking with Peters was almost like talking to Knox. They had a discussion one night about the issue of women and love and Kris. With Knox, ever since that dinner at the Danbury's, every conversation that included women had to have Kris in it. "I don't want to talk about it, really, if you don't mind, Peters."

Peters shrugged again. "Okay."

* * *

Mr. Keating sat nervously in Mr. Crocelli's room. They both knew rules were being broken by his presence, but Mr. Keating didn't care. Charlie needed him and he needed to be there. "Gianni, tell Mr. Dalton I'll meet him at the cave tonight"

Mr. Crocelli smiled. "Will do." As Mr. Keating made it to the door, Mr. Crocelli turned around. "He okay, John?"

Mr. Keating faced his friend. "I don't know, Gianni. I don't know." He paused. "He seem any different to you?"

"He's a lot more withdrawn than he used to be. The past couple of weeks have had some sort of toll on him, John. No one knows what happened. Well, Peters knew something in order to call you up here."

* * *

Charlie made his way to the cave. "Mr. Keating?" He called.

"Nuwanda." Mr. Keating's joking tone put Charlie at instant ease. Mr. Keating sat on a stone, hands towards the fire to warm them up. "You have a lot of people here worried about you, Mr. Dalton." The tone became serious.

Charlie sat opposite of his former teacher and shrugged. "I know." He sighed heavily. "I thought that…I didn't realise…" His voice trailed off.

"Neil's death hit everyone hard, Charlie. I hear from Knox every now and again how about how hard of a time Todd's having."

"Who told you, Captain?"

"Your roommate, Mr. Peters. He found my number, I suppose, in your stuff and called. He worried enough about you to find someone for you to talk to. What's going on, Mr. Dalton?"

Charlie dug in his pocket and handed Mr. Keating a letter. "Here. Read this. This is the letter I got from my oldest brother, W.B."

Mr. Keating read the letter and felt his heart break. He looked at Charlie. "You mustn't believe this. You're not the disappointment here. You found your voice. You use your voice. It's your brother who is in danger for following others. Lemmings follow other lemmings to their death and so it is with people who follow others." Mr. Keating sighed. "You and Neil understood with an understanding far beyond your years what I was trying to teach. Each of you, in your own distinct ways, questioned authority and stood your ground. Each of you knew what you wanted from life and you were going to get it."

"Neil gave up too easily." Charlie wiped a tear.

"You won't, Mr. Dalton." Mr. Keating scooted closer. "I see the light in your eyes and you will make a difference. You will be the one that stands up and says 'I will not be ignored. I have a voice and not only do I know how to use it, I intend to.' You, Mr. Dalton, are the future of this country. You and all the young people in this nation. Don't forget that."


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…except for Neal, Dean, Haldon, Peters, Mr. Crocelli, Steven, Jeffery. If I _DID_ own the characters (Uh, DPS ones, obviously!), I'd have Charlie all to myself! And the things we could do in that Indian cave! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

* * *

Charlie huffed. "It's hard to think of yourself as anything when everyone's telling you what to do, what to eat, what to wear."

Mr. Keating smiled. "I know, Mr. Dalton. I went through it, but the tides are turning. Young men like you and Todd and Knox will change things around and people will learn that our young people have things…_important_ things…to say." His smile faded as he pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket. "Your roommate gave me this when he saw me."

Charlie felt the sting in his eyes as he realised what Mr. Keating was holding. "Look, Cap'n, I…"

Mr. Keating didn't pay attention to Charlie's protests as he looked at the letter. "Kind of a sad letter to write, wasn't it?" Charlie sighed. "Your sigh tells me so." This time Mr. Keating sighed. "'_Without friends, nothing matters. Without hope…without life. Nothing matters anymore, 'Captain'. NOTHING!'_" Mr. Keating looked up at Charlie. "You have hope, Charlie. You will always have me if you need someone to talk to. Mr. Crocelli as well. Your new roommate cares enough about you to call the one person he felt you would need. Talk to Knox as you would if he were here. Don't shut others out because you're in pain."

"Neil was the only person in the world who understood me, Mr. Keating." Charlie sighed. "He knew how my parents treated me and what they thought of me. Even though he was an only child, he understood."

"You have to believe that you are important, Charlie." Mr. Keating sighed. "Is that why you were always choking on the marrow of life?"

Charlie looked up at Mr. Keating. "Yes, Cap'n. If I didn't act out, my parents wouldn't pay attention to me. I wanted their attention and their love. I watched as they doted on my older brothers and ignored me. They didn't ship me off to Welton because it was the best preparatory school in the nation. My brothers went there so they knew the discipline that would be instilled. My parents sent me to Welton to get rid of me. My older brothers didn't go to Welton until they were juniors in high school, Cap'n. I was enrolled at age 11. Before that was a ritzy private school. They didn't want to deal with me, Mr. Keating." Charlie wiped a tear.

"You are not some toy, Charlie. You're a human and you need to acknowledge you are."

"I can't, Mr. Keating."

"Why not?"

"I can't let them see they've hurt me like they have…"

"But if you don't say anything, then you have given them the power over you." Mr. Keating sighed. He looked back down at the letter. "'_Each of us asked what we could have done to have protected you that night. Should we have ripped you from the car? Should we have called you? Gone to visit you? Could we, the Dead Poet's Society, your closest friends, have done something to save you?'_ Don't play the 'coulda-shoulda-woulda' game, Mr. Dalton. We all wondered what we could have done, but we couldn't have done anything. Neil was the one…the _ONLY_ one…that could have done something." Mr. Keating felt his heart drop a little at the sight of Charlie. It was hard to believe that the young man sitting in the cave with him was Charlie Dalton, the young man responsible for the now legendary 'Phone Call From God', the same young man who didn't care about the rules and sought the best way to break them, and yet still not get into too much trouble. "You've a whole life ahead of you. Don't die because Neil did."

"You don't understand, Mr. Keating." Charlie looked hard at his old teacher. "Neil was…"

"You're not Neil and you shouldn't stop living because he died, Charlie. By all means, hate him. Grieve him. Never forget him. But don't stop your life because your best friend ended his." Suddenly Mr. Keating trembled with fear. Something was nagging at him that there was more wrong with Charlie than just Neil's death and the being ignored by his family. "Talk to me, Mr. Dalton. What's going on with you?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Keating?"

"You seem very distant tonight."

"I've a lot of things on my mind, Cap'n."

"Talk to me, Charlie." Mr. Keating prodded.

Charlie looked at his former teacher and sighed. "When I was at Welton and getting the good grades, I at least got some attention from Mom and Dad. Now that I'm here, nothing. Every time I call home, they're just heading out the door for some important social or they're not there. The only letter I've gotten since coming here has been the scathing letter from William."

"Makes you wonder if it's worth it all?"

"Have you ever felt abandoned and alone, Mr. Keating?" Charlie looked down to the fire.

"I heard that the Native Americans believe that if you look into a fire long enough, you'll see your past, present and future." Mr. Keating softly laughed. He then looked at Charlie who was staring intently at the fire as though it were playing a movie of his life. "No, Mr. Dalton. I dare not say I ever felt abandoned and alone."

"Since Neil's death, that's all I have felt. When he was alive, it didn't matter if my parents paid attention to me. I had Neil and his parents, who doted on me as well." Charlie smiled. "I remember this one time I went home with Neil for the summer." He looked at Mr. Keating. "My parents didn't want to deal with me over the summer. They had their hands full with Michael. So, I spent the summer with Neil and his parents. Say what you will about Mr. Perry, but he loved Neil and he treated me as though I were his son." Charlie wiped a few stray tears.

"'_You deserved to live. You deserved to be happy. You didn't deserve to be a prisoner to your father's dreams for you. You certainly didn't deserve to die. We, your friends, didn't deserve it either.'_ You're right, Charlie. You don't deserve to die either. So, don't. Find your voice again and live like you always have."

Charlie couldn't stop the tears. "I can't, Cap'n. I can't."

Mr. Keating reached out and hugged Charlie, letting him cry on his shoulder. "Yes you can and I'm just a phone call away to help."


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…except for Neal, Dean, Haldon, Peters, Mr. Crocelli, Steven, Jeffery. If I _DID_ own the characters (Uh, DPS ones, obviously!), I'd have Charlie all to myself! And the things we could do in that Indian cave! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

* * *

Charlie sat at his desk, staring in to oblivion, when Peters burst in the door. "Charlie! Great news!" 

Charlie smiled. "What?"

Peters coughed as if he were an important persona. "Well, Mr. Evans was in an accident and he's hospitalized…"

"And the good news in that is?" Charlie asked.

"They're hiring a substitute." Peters could hardly contain his excitement.

"Yay. A substitute." Charlie sarcastically cheered.

"Yes. A certain Mr. John Keating." Peters laughed as Charlie whipped his head around. "Yes! Apparently, what he did at the Chester School in London far outweighed what happened at Welton and Mr. Crocelli putting in a good word and…"

"When?"

"Monday. He starts Monday." Peters sat on the edge of Charlie's bed. "Tell me about him. What should we know?"

"He's not responsible for the death of my friend at Welton. We all know that." Charlie looked at Peters. "He's the type of person that…that…he believes that we should find our voices. 'Carpe diem' was what he taught us. He taught us to not only look at poetry the way that it was written, but to look at it and see it from our own perspective." Charlie stood up and began pacing around the room, memories of Mr. Keating's class coming back like a flood. "He refused to teach us about J. Evans Pritchard. He taught us that we are…" Charlie stopped pacing and looked at Peters. "Jesus, Peters. You know what this means?"

"It means you smile again." Peters laughed.

"No. It means…" Charlie didn't finish his sentence before running out of the room.

Peters smiled. Only Charlie could be a mystery and yet so open at the same time. He went to his desk and started working on the assignment for Trig and laughed at the memory of Charlie rushing out of the room.

* * *

The last time John Keating had ever been this nervous was when he started at Welton. He was sure that the experience there would have harmed him getting a school so quick, so close. Sure, it was only until Mr. Evans could return to work, _but, still,_ He thought as he tied his tie, _it's teaching English and returning to what I love the most._

The only boy in the classroom that understood him was Charles Dalton. Mr. Keating eyed the students, looking for his young admirer. When Charlie came in, he smiled. "Mornin', Captain."

Mr. Keating smiled as Charlie's brown eyes were now once again full of the life that had been missing at their last meeting. "Nuwanda." He nodded. As the rest of the boys filtered in, Mr. Keating stood on the desk, winking at Charlie as he did so. "Boys!" Mr. Keating said as the bell rang. The boys all stifled laughs as they saw their teacher on the desk. "Can anyone tell me why I stand up here?"

Charlie laughed. It had only been four months earlier that Mr. Keating asked the same question in an English class at Welton. He decided to repeat the same answer. "To feel taller."

Mr. Keating stood still and looked a moment at Charlie before laughing and hitting the bell with his foot. "NO! To remind myself to look at things a different way."

The memories came back to Charlie and he recalled that day that Mr. Keating had, as he was doing now, them stand on his desk, looking around the room, while he was reciting Thoreau and men leading lives of quiet desperation. As he waited his turn, he could only think of Welton.

"_Mr. Perry. Mr. Dalton." Mr. Keating's voice was the sternest it had been since they started._

_Neil and Charlie looked at each other, wondering what they could have done. Neil spoke first. "Yes, Captain?"_

"_I have noticed that you are both acing the tests."_

"_We're not cheating, Captain." Charlie began to protest._

"_Did I say you were?" When the boys shook their heads, Mr. Keating continued. "What I need is a couple of tutors for Mr. Christy and Mr. Hopkins. They are failing and they cannot continue to play soccer unless their grades come up. Since you two are my brightest students, I have volunteered you to tutor."_

"_What about Meeks?" Neil asked._

"_Meeks is already tutoring in math. He can't be overwhelmed." Mr. Keating smiled. "I know you two can and will do this. Besides," His smile grew broader, "It's worth extra credit."_

_Neil and Charlie smiled and agreed to tutor._

"Mr. Dalton?" Mr. Keating's voice broke Charlie's train of thought. "You're holding up the line."

"Sorry, Cap'n." Charlie jumped off.

"Okay boys!" Mr. Keating announced as the bell dismissing them rang. "Don't forget about your assignments and write an essay about who's had the biggest impact on your life." He looked to Charlie.

"We already did that, Sir." Mitch Crebbins whined.

"I wasn't here for that, so we'll do it again. I'm a curious son of a gun, aren't I?" Mr. Keating smiled.

Charlie quickly gathered his things and ran after Mr. Keating. "Cap'n!"

"Mr. Dalton." Mr. Keating turned around and looked at his young student.

"Are you going to make me read what I wrote to Neil aloud?" Charlie couldn't explain the fear that overwhelmed him.

"No. Think of another person. What was between you and Neil was special and that will not be broadcast in this class, okay?"

"Thanks, Cap'n."

"Anytime, Nuwanda. Anytime." Mr. Keating winked and walked away.

Charlie smiled and headed to his room. He had an essay to write and he knew who to write it about.


End file.
